


taking care

by kittenscully



Series: x files prompt fills [4]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Season/Series 01, The X-Files Revival, and also
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:14:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24899014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittenscully/pseuds/kittenscully
Summary: Rationally, she tells herself, the bath and the wine will be better yet when she’s rubbed out all of the tension.
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Series: x files prompt fills [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1789186
Comments: 3
Kudos: 38





	taking care

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to a request for headcanons about Scully's self care routines.

Friday night, Spring, 1993. All the way home, she nearly crawls out of her skin in impatience to get there. Little creature comforts, from the half bottle of red in the fridge to the new bubble bath she found in an Atlanta airport gift shop at two in the morning on Wednesday, running on four hours of sleep.

She sighs. The things she goes through for the job. Well, for him. She hadn’t exactly signed up for it, but in hindsight, she’d choose the thrill of mystery and monsters and Mulder over teaching or other, safer work without hesitation.

The moment she’s inside, the shoes come off.

One, two, her hand against the doorframe, arches railing in protest even with such a short heel. She digs her fingers in, hose slippery under her nails, groans and winces under her breath.

She’ll never wear higher than three inches, God as her witness. And certainly never stilettos, not with all the running toward mystery and from monsters and after Mulder. If she has her way, she’ll put him in a pair of her shoes one these days, see how well he does.

The image is amusing, endearing in its potential for clumsiness. Undoubtedly, he moves far too suddenly to tolerate heels, all pent up energy, bursting with restlessness every time he’s made to sit still.

A lightning rod of a man, buzzing, towering over her and making every hair on her body stand on end. And the static crackling all the way down her spine when he pulls away again, leaving her vibrating and wide-eyed and restless, just like him.

The rush of heat to her cheeks is so swift that she’s embarrassed, even in the privacy of her own apartment. Chewing on her lip, she confronts the obtrusive memory of his heavy frame hulking behind her, far too close for any sense of propriety, as he retrieves a file that she can’t seem to locate. His hand on the small of her back, his breath in her hair, the smile evident in his voice as he teases her.

What was it that he’d said?

_How’s that for organization, Scully?_

Of course, about his incomprehensible filing system – the one that only he could seem to decipher. The one she’s sure is solely based on his own eidetic memory, as she’d said in the moment – _there’s no sense behind it, Mulder, none at all,_ and _you ought to let me help you reorganize,_ and _this is meant to be a partnership, after all._

_Sure, Scully. But why don’t you hold off on that for now, let me teach you a few things instead?_

And oh, he must’ve heard how her breath caught, then. Must’ve seen how her knees went just a little bit weak. With any luck, he didn’t have too keen a sense of smell. Thankfully, he certainly isn’t here to notice any of the signs of her arousal now.

There’s a steaming hot bath awaiting her, and the half empty bottle of red in the fridge. There’s leftovers from the Italian place last night with her name on them.

Swallowing, she crosses one leg over the other, sinks back against her front door. She wants to hate how easily he gets to her, but she doesn’t, not in the slightest.

How could she? It’s absolutely, intoxicatingly addictive.

A beat of silence, and then she makes up her mind. Hooking her shoes over her fingertips, she makes her way to the bedroom, shucking off her blazer and skirt along the way and leaving them draped across a chair.

Her hose are damp at the seam between her thighs, her underwear damper still. They always are these days, just as his tie is always loosened, his Oxford always mussed, his sleeves always rolled up, forearms resting on the mess of files on his desk.

Tongue between her teeth, she tosses both undergarments away, and settles back atop her pillows with the adrenaline rush of her heartbeat wild in her own ears.

Rationally, she tells herself, the bath and the wine will be better yet when she’s rubbed out all of the tension.

She thinks shamelessly and only of him, fingers a blur on her clit, head tossing against the pillow. She comes with his name stifled behind her teeth. After, she wonders for a few long moments whether he thinks of her, too.

And then, she decides that it doesn’t matter half as much as her impending bath.

*

Friday night, Winter, 2018. All the way home, she nearly crawls out of her skin in impatience to get there. Mulder, in the driver’s seat as always, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, smiling just a little. Still amused at her evening grumpiness, even after twenty-five years of seeing it firsthand.

“The Thai place has some special new promotion,” he tells her. “Fifty percent-off Fridays, on appetizers and sides.”

She smiles, too. It’s hard not to. The things he goes through for this partnership of theirs. Well, for her. She supposes, though, that he’d known exactly what he was signing up for when he chose her, over and over again. Just as she had when she chose him back.

“We have leftovers,” she reminds him affectionately.

“As long as you’re smiling, Scully, I’ll go for anything.”

She coos out an _aw_ , runs her palm over his bicep. He’s bulked up during their short-lived separation, and returned to her with so much more Mulder to rub herself against. So much more of him to lay atop, or to wrap around herself like a heat blanket.

The moment they’re inside, the shoes come off.

One, two, her hand against his shoulder as he indulges her, standing steady at her side like the loyal creature he is. The stilettos she swore she’d never wear are abandoned on the floor, cursed under her breath. The couch is blissfully close by, especially with Mulder’s arm solid around her waist.

The couch sighs and heaves as he collapses beside her, and she sighs, too, as he pulls her feet into his lap and digs his thumbs into her arches.

“I don’t know how you do it, Scully,” he tells her.

She hums, only mildly curious, distracted by his big hands soothing away the daily ache.

“Those shoes,” he explains. “I could never wear something like that, not even when I was young and spry.”

The image is endearing, sweet. She wants to touch him, her endearing, sweet giant of a man, but he’s too far away, rumpled and cozy, the pillows behind him crushed by the breadth of his back. Domesticity suits him, she thinks, better than it ever has her.

She would crawl into his lap to kiss him, her stay-at-home not-quite-husband, her lonely, perfect housewife, if she had the energy to move.

As if he’d heard her thinking, he lifts her feet, leans over to grab her around the waist again. She slides easily on the couch, caught up in his sturdy arms, landing sidesaddle in his lap with a delighted little gasp.

The warmth in his eyes reaches the very center of her being, somewhere between her stomach and the place where her thighs rest against his, a bundle of contentment tucked away just in front of her spine. She lays her palm on the center of his being, his sternum solid and familiar through his Oxford, and tilts her head up to kiss him softly, as if to say _hi, honey, I’m home._

 _Hi, Mulder,_ you’re _home._

“What happened to my foot massage?” She teases, digging her fingertips into his chest.

“I can think of far more enjoyable things I could do to be of service, if a massage is what you’re looking for,” he rumbles.

The rush of heat to her cheeks is swift, and she’s shocked at how quickly the wanting has come back to her. How easily he has her wrapped around his finger again, even when she’s convinced she’s gotten the upper hand.

“Hm.” It’s part of the game, now more than ever, this moment where she stops to consider. This act where she plays hard to get, even as her panties grow damp. “I think I might want a bath.”

“I’ll run you one,” he says, his voice a murmur in her ear. His palm is heavy on her belly, and then his thumb flicks open the button of her slacks. “After.”

“It’s Friday, Mulder,” she reminds him, running her hand up his chest to cup his neck. “You know I need time to decompress. They’re calling it self-care, nowadays.”

“Ah,” he hums. His teeth find her earlobe, gently tugging, and she sighs, her thighs falling open as he teases down her zipper. “See, that’s for the younger generations, Scully.”

“Oh, is it?” She loves how easily he gets to her, even now. His mouth against her jaw, the hardness of his cock against her hip. His big fingers brushing across her mound, taking his time to toy with her even though she’s been wet since he pulled her into his lap, just like always.

“You don’t need self-care, Scully,” he murmurs. “You’ve got me to take care of you.”

All she does is whisper his name, barely a sound, and then they’re working her slacks down her legs. His palm is up against her soaking cunt, hot and broad and heavy, and his nose is tucked into her hair.

She breathes in his cologne, mixed with her own arousal. And he does take care of her, true to his word, as she settles against him. Warm and comfortable, domestic and _hers._

In the afterglow, he smiles, kisses her like a welcome home. She can’t think of anything else that matters.


End file.
